TWO.    Velveteen Rabbit

The rabbit hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. 

—    Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

                                                                                𝓒eline Faelthorne inherited nothing but expectations the moment she was born. She was born into the weight of names that didn't need to be spoken. The Faelthornes were not a family whose history required explanation; it was felt in the way others spoke around them, the quiet tilt of their heads, the way the air in the room shifted when they entered. They were a presence before they were people, and Celine, though hardly old enough to understand it when it began, had learned early to sit in the quiet spaces that people left for her. It was never about grandeur or the glittering details of her lineage—those things never seemed important enough for conversation, not with the Faelthornes. No one spoke of riches, of estates, or influence. They spoke only of what they did, how they moved in the world. And Celine had learned to do that just as quietly as the rest of them.

At Hogwarts, that became clearer. Slytherin House wasn't a place for great declarations or boasts—it was a place of sharp calculation, of things said and unsaid, of knowing when to hold and when to release. Her peers knew her as one might know the ebb of a river—a constant, present, sometimes barely perceptible force. But there was nothing fragile about it. She was, in a way, the least interesting of them all. But it was her own kind of advantage. No one expected her to be anything more than a quiet observer, and that made her good at watching. Reading.

Her classmates in Slytherin never questioned the quietness of her ambition, not because it was hidden, but because it was steady, always present in the way she walked through the halls with her head slightly tilted, as if always listening to something just beyond the corner of her thoughts. Celine rarely spoke more than necessary. But when she did, she made it count. When she didn't, no one noticed the space she left. At Hogwarts, it wasn't enough to simply excel—her excellence had to be without question, an unspoken truth before it ever reached the words of professors or classmates. She didn't need to try harder; she simply had to be. A Faelthorne wasn't a student who earned applause for their grades; they were the student that everyone simply assumed would perform flawlessly. After all, that was what their foundation was built upon; that was the source of their riches.

This, too, was a lesson ingrained by time. And yet, in spite of it all, in the rare moments when she allowed herself to see beyond the polished edges of her own self-discipline, there was something she could not quite grasp—something unsettled that felt too small to hold her entirely, but too sharp to ignore.

And yet, in all the stillness, there were moments. Little flashes, like the flicker of a candlelight against a shadow, a brief spark of something unbidden, unsettling. It wasn't the conversations or the laughs of her friends she thought of in the dead of night. It was the silence that echoed in her chest when she saw someone looking at her—someone who was starting to notice what she had carefully kept hidden. It had always been there—something subtle, almost imperceptible, just beneath the surface—but it wasn't until the year had fully begun that she realized how much more it would feel like this time. She wondered, sometimes, whether the stillness would always feel like an armor, or whether it was, instead, a cage. She wondered if anyone else ever questioned how tightly they had to be woven into the fabric of a thing before they were allowed to simply exist outside of it.

Perhaps it was the constant hum of Hogwarts itself—the way the castle shifted with the seasons, the way its ancient walls seemed to press in from all sides, murmuring secrets to those who dared listen. Maybe it was the constant clatter of footsteps in the halls, the weight of unfamiliar eyes that were always watching, or the strange warmth that lingered in the spaces between conversations.

But whatever it was, Celine couldn't help the way the tension built up within her, slow and deliberate, curling in the back of her mind. She was certain it was nothing more than the oddity of adolescence, the discomfort of knowing one's place, yet feeling... almost invisible within it. She wasn't a shadow, she knew that much—her family made sure of it. But sometimes, even the brightest lights cast strange, unsettling reflections.

Perhaps that was why the Black Lake turned into a reprieve for her. It had a way of stilling everything within her, a cool silence that contrasted the world that seemed to constantly hum around her. When she stood by the water's edge, the ripples that broke across the surface almost felt like a conversation she didn't need to have. The lake, with its strange, glassy depth, was a place that asked no questions, offered no judgments. The wind that ruffled her hair, the faint scent of earth and moss—it was a kind of peace she couldn't find anywhere else, not even in the quiet corridors of Slytherin.

She stood there now, the late afternoon light casting long, shifting shadows, watching as the water reflected the grey sky above, dark and unyielding. For a moment, she thought she saw the flicker of something—perhaps a memory, perhaps just a trick of the light—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Her thoughts, unbidden, drifted back to her family. Not her parents—Callista, of course, had her own way of handling things, always at ease in the world of names and expectations. No, it was the idea of family itself. The weight of it. What it meant to be tied to something larger than yourself, to move through life with that pressure always in the back of your mind. Celine had never hated it, not exactly, but she had never felt quite comfortable with it either. The way others looked at her, the way they expected things of her—things they never said aloud but somehow always knew. The world seemed to turn on the axis of who she was connected to, and yet she couldn't help but feel, sometimes, like she was an afterthought in the grand scheme of it all. Not an outcast, certainly, but something between.

A voice cut through the stillness. "It's almost poetic, isn't it?"

Celine blinked, her gaze still focused on the rippling water. Slowly, she turned, only slightly surprised to see Evan standing a few paces behind her, a cigarette between his fingers. He hadn't been there a second ago, but in the same way that he always appeared—quietly, without fanfare—it was as though he'd never left.

"Poetic?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Her tone was dry, but it wasn't unkind.

He shrugged, glancing from her to the lake. "I figured I'd at least try to match the mood. You know, all dark and broody—seemed like the thing to do."

Celine made a noncommittal sound, her lips curling faintly. "Sure. And what are you, the critic?"

"Not at all," Evan said, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, his gaze lazily wandering over the water. "Just an observer, like you."

"Matching the mood isn't exactly your strong suit, Rosier," she replied, her gaze drifting back to the lake, her tone almost dismissive but with that faint undercurrent of amusement that always accompanied their exchanges.

He laughed lightly, bending at his knees to sit on the grass next to her. "I've been told I've gotten better at reading the room.  You know, getting more in tune with my feelings."

Celine shot him a side-eye, raising an eyebrow. "You? Feeling something? That's a first."

"I know, shocking, right?" He grinned, not looking at her but staring off into the distance. "It's like I've been pretending to be one of those moody types, but, y'know, it doesn't really suit me."

"No kidding," she said, the edge of her smile betraying her dry tone. "I thought you'd burn out by the end of last week."

"Clearly, you don't give me enough credit." Evan leaned back, tilting his head to look up at the clouds. "Maybe I'm just evolving."

"Right." She couldn't help the way her lips quirked. "Next thing we know, you'll be wearing black turtlenecks and reciting poetry."

"Hey, no promises," he teased. "But if I did, I bet you'd love it."

Celine shrugged, her voice flat but with a touch of humor. "I'd probably just roll my eyes and leave."

Evan smirked. "That's because you're so predictable, Cel."

Evan smirked. "That's because you're so predictable, Celine."

She rolled her eyes, leaning back a little. "Predictable's not the worst thing. At least you know what to expect."

He chuckled, flicking a stray blade of grass off his knee. "Yeah, and here I thought you were supposed to keep things interesting."

"I do," she said simply, glancing at him. "You just don't notice."

"Don't notice?" Evan repeated, leaning back on his hands and raising an eyebrow. "I notice everything. That's kind of my thing."

"Sure it is," she said, her lips twitching faintly into a smirk.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was easy, comfortable. Evan pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before. He took a slow drag and exhaled, the smoke curling into the air between them.

"Are you bored?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now, not serious exactly, but thoughtful.

Celine raised an eyebrow. "Of what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely toward the lake, the castle in the distance. "All of it. Same routine, same people, same problems."

She shrugged, her gaze drifting back to the water. "I think about how much worse it'd be somewhere else."

Evan laughed softly, the sound low and almost to himself. "You're a real optimist, you know that?"

"Don't tell anyone," she replied, her tone dry.

Evan hadn't stuck around for long, but he had for long enough to be late to his Quidditch practice. Not that he'd seemed particularly concerned—Evan Rosier didn't treat lateness as a problem so much as an inevitability. He'd probably left his gloves half-shoved in his bag somewhere, along with the battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that he never read but carried to look the part. He always had a habit of picking up things he didn't need, stuffing them into pockets and forgetting about them until weeks later: a broken quill, a spare button, the faint scent of ash clinging to the lining of his robes.

Their friendship was built on fragments like that. Not grand confessions or shared ideals, but little things—things that most people didn't notice. Celine knew the contents of his bag better than anyone, just as he could probably name the specific tea blend she preferred when she wasn't feeling well. She'd once borrowed his Charms notes only to find doodles scrawled in the margins—half a broomstick being swallowed by a dragon, a lopsided crescent moon with stars trailing off like smoke, and the silhouette of what might have been a grindylow wearing a bowtie. In one corner, there was a smudge where he'd clearly jabbed the parchment too hard with his quill, as if testing its limits, and just beneath it, a barely legible "Evan was here." She hadn't given the notes back, and he hadn't asked for them.

Evan had his rituals. The way he always carried two cigarettes instead of one because he'd forget where he'd left the first. How his boots always seemed a little scuffed at the toe, like he'd been kicking at loose stones on the path to the pitch. How he was forever peeling labels off butterbeer bottles, leaving half-curled scraps behind in the common room. He didn't say much, but the evidence of his presence was scattered everywhere, like a trail that only someone like her would follow.

It wasn't that they were close in the way people expected. Their friendship wasn't loud or consuming; it didn't demand attention. But it was steady, built on years of shared observations, late-night detentions, and the quiet comfort of being seen without needing to explain yourself.

By the time she heard the whistle from the Quidditch pitch, Celine smirked faintly. He'd show up, no doubt, offering some half-formed excuse with his crooked grin. The gloves would be in his bag. The second cigarette would be forgotten in his pocket. And when someone inevitably called him out, he'd laugh like it had all gone exactly according to plan.

She was still at the Black Lake, the sun hardly having gone down since she'd taken residence there after school. She flipped the book shut on her lap, letting her fingers brush over the embossed cover—faded gold lettering that she'd only noticed when the light hit it just right. The edges were worn, the spine cracked in a way that suggested it had been opened and closed thousands of times, though never by her.

The Faelthorne name wasn't written on the cover, but it might as well have been. The book had been buried in a forgotten corner of her family's library, shoved behind more impressive-looking volumes with gilded edges and leather-bound spines. A passing whim had led her to it weeks ago, and though she hadn't fully understood its significance yet, she kept coming back to it.

The sound of footsteps in the grass made her glance up, her brow furrowing slightly as Remus Lupin came into view. He stopped just short of the tree line, hesitating in that way he always seemed to, like he hadn't decided if he was supposed to be here at all.

She tilted her head, her tone even. "Lost, Lupin?"

His expression softened with the faintest trace of a smile. "Not yet. Thought I'd take a walk."

"To the Black Lake?" She raised an eyebrow, closing the book fully now. "A bit far from the Gryffindor tower, isn't it?"

"Sometimes it's nice to wander," he said, and though his tone was light, she caught the way his eyes shifted, already reading the atmosphere. Remus had a way of doing that—saying less than he noticed, which she supposed was a skill in itself. "And I didn't think it was private property."

"It's not," she replied smoothly. "But I wouldn't have pegged you as someone who strays too far from his pack."

His jaw tightened just slightly, a flicker of something he pushed away as quickly as it came. "And yet here I am."

"Brave of you," she said, leaning back on her hands and letting her words hang in the air. She wasn't wrong, and they both knew it. The Marauders weren't subtle about their distaste for her, though she could never quite decide whether it was her house, her surname, or just her presence that irked them most. Likely all three.

He let out a soft laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Is this the part where you remind me I'm out of place?"

She studied him for a moment, noting the faint circles under his eyes, the way his posture seemed too careful, as though he'd already braced himself for a sharp reply. Instead, she shrugged. "You're here. Might as well sit."

Remus hesitated for half a beat before lowering himself onto the grass, leaving a polite distance between them. "You always this hospitable?"

"Depends," she said, her tone casual as she tapped the spine of the book against her knee. "You always this stubborn?"

"I've been called worse." His smile was faint now, but real. He turned his gaze toward the water, his voice softening. His gaze flicked briefly to the book. "That looks old."

She tilted her head, her fingers still brushing the edges of the pages. "It is. Not that it's any of your business."

Remus was one of the few people in Gryffindor who she could moderately stand; they had been paired up several times over the years, and he was the only one out of his friends that didn't chime in on the Celina-Faelthorne-Hating-Bandwagon. Surprisingly, Peter Pettigrew had more of a mouth on him than she'd expected, though it was easier to shut down than James and Sirius.

He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Instead, he moved to sit on the grass, keeping a careful distance. "Don't think I've ever seen you read anything aside from textbooks."

"And I don't think I've ever seen you talk to Slytherins," she countered smoothly.

"Touché," he said with a faint smile, his attention drifting back to the book. "What is it, anyway?"

Celine hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the cover. "Something from my family's library. I've been trying to expand my knowledge—I guess."

Remus's expression shifted, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Let me see."

She raised an eyebrow, holding it a fraction closer to her chest. "Why?"

"Because I've been looking for that book for years," he said simply. "There's only a handful of copies left."

Her grip loosened slightly, and she studied him, trying to decide if he was serious. "You recognize it?"

He nodded, his tone more thoughtful now. "It's tied toyour family, isn't it? The Codex. Early journals, maybe? The kind of history most people don't bother writing down because they think it'll always just be known."

She paused, the edges of her curiosity sharpening. "What do you know about it?"

"Enough to know you're holding something rare," he replied. "And probably important, though I doubt they'd make it obvious. That's not your family's style."

"And you've been trying to find one?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

Remus shrugged, though his expression didn't waver. "They're significant."

Celine's jaw tightened, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Her fingers tapped lightly against the cover, a quiet, rhythmic beat as she weighed her response. Finally, she spoke, her voice measured.

"And why would I let you see it? Besides, it's just old ledgers. Nothing very significant."

"You're still reading it," he said simply, his gaze unwavering. "There's probably stuff in there worth knowing."

Her lips quirked, though it wasn't quite a smile. "And you think you could find it?"

"I think I might know where to start," he said, his tone low but certain.

She didn't hand it over—not yet. Instead, she tilted the book slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the edge of the script on the first page. It was a silent concession, one that made it clear she was still in control. Celine's fingers rested on the book's worn edge, hesitant but steady. "It's not the kind of thing you're imagining," she said, her voice quieter now. "It's just numbers. Transactions."

Four vials—Aurum Vitae. Stored per instruction. Unmarked crates removed from the hall of the crescent moon, 23 May. Seal reinforced under directive: 'No greater debt may be paid but with the marrow of the keeper.' Returned to the locked chamber, awaiting the appointed hour.

Remus leaned closer, close enough that he could see the scrawls on the page but not touch it, his brows knitting as he read. "The marrow of the keeper," he murmured. "That's," he paused, as though scouring for the right word to use. "Unsettling."

Celine tilted her head, her expression carefully neutral. "It's probably just a metaphor. My ancestors loved to make everything sound like a prophecy."

"Or it's not," he replied, his voice steady. He tapped a finger against the word 'marrow'. "This isn't the kind of phrase you used to throw in casually. It's specific. The marrow of the keeper—it sounds like someone's life is bound to this. Like a cost."

She rolled her eyes but didn't interrupt as he continued. She flipped the page, revealing more of the ledger's cryptic entries. The handwriting shifted again, almost frantic now, with phrases underlined and marked with symbols she didn't recognize.

The debt remains unpaid. No safe passage secured. The crescent burns red, and the appointed hour draws near. Binding fractured; vessel compromised. Relic transferred under cover of night. Witness absent.

Remus ran his hand through his hair, his eyes narrowing at the page. "This isn't just inventory, Celine. These aren't just ledgers—they're accounts. It's documenting something. Something dangerous, maybe."

"Dangerous?" she repeated, a skeptical lilt in her tone. "You're really reaching."

"Am I?" he countered, looking up at her. "The crescent burns red—that's not about some dusty thing being misplaced. Whoever wrote this was panicking. Something went wrong."

"Or they were being dramatic. Is this what they taught you in Muggle schools? How to spin everything into a tragedy?" she replied, her tone dry, though her fingers lingered on the page a moment longer than necessary.

Remus let out a quiet laugh, soft but unshaken. "And is this what they teach in Pureblood etiquette? How to dismiss everything inconvenient as 'dramatic'?"

She looked up at him sharply, though her expression softened just enough to betray her amusement. "If you're trying to irritate me, you'll have to do better than that."

"I'm not trying to irritate you," he said, leaning back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm just saying, there's a difference between being dramatic and being deliberate. Your family doesn't strike me as careless."

Celine raised an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't get used to it," Remus replied, though his tone was light, almost teasing. His gaze shifted back to the book, to the jagged scrawl of ink on the yellowing page. "Look, maybe it's nothing. But if it is something, wouldn't you rather know than guess?"

Before Celine could respond, a voice interrupted, its sharp edge slicing cleanly through the quiet. "Have I missed a memo?"

Sirius Black appeared from the path behind them, his brow furrowed in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze flicking between the two of them with an incredulous tilt of his head. "Since when do you make a habit of chatting up Slytherins?"

Remus sighed audibly, leaning back slightly as though bracing himself for the inevitable. "Since when do I need your approval for who I talk to, Sirius?"

"You don't," Sirius replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing on Celine. "But you've got to admit, this is—unusual."

"Am I interrupting something?" Celine asked, her tone cool as she shut the book on her lap with a soft but deliberate thud. Her expression was unreadable, but the slight lift of her brow dared him to push further.

"You tell me," Sirius shot back, crossing his arms. "I didn't realize you were into—what's this, light reading?" He gestured toward the book, his tone dripping with mock curiosity. "Did you bring Moony along for his literary expertise?"

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to maintain his patience. "I ran into her, Sirius. That's all."

"Ran into her," Sirius repeated, the skepticism in his voice impossible to miss. He turned to Celine, his smirk razor-sharp. "Didn't realize you were recruiting study partners. Expanding your horizons?"

Celine's lips curled faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "And I didn't realize Gryffindors spent so much time worrying."

Sirius's smirk faltered for just a moment, his eyes narrowing further. "I'm not worried. Just curious. What's in the book, Faelthorne? Tips on how to be even more unbearable?"

Remus stepped in before she could respond, his voice firmer now. "That's enough, Sirius."

Sirius looked at him, the faintest trace of something sharp and wounded flickering in his expression before he masked it with a shrug. "Whatever you say, Moony." His gaze lingered on Celine for a moment longer before he turned to leave. "Enjoy your little tête-à-tête."

As his footsteps receded, Celine exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Does he always act like this, or is it just for me?" She smiled drily, causing Lupin to let out an annoyed laugh.

"I'm probably going to hear a mouthful later—right as I'm going to bed, probably."

"Better you than me," Celine said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of genuine sympathy. She watched Sirius's silhouette disappear down the path, her fingers drumming against the book's spine. "He didn't seem particularly thrilled to find you here."

"Yeah, I noticed," Remus replied, rubbing the back of his neck. He cast a sideways glance at her, his smile faint but genuine. "He's... protective, in his own way."

"Protective?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'd say possessive. He looked like he was ready to hex me just for existing."

Remus laughed, though there was a hint of discomfort behind it. "He means well. It's complicated. I think seeing me here with you threw him off. He does think you're—"

He hesitated, his words trailing off, and Celine's gaze narrowed, her curiosity piqued. "Go on," she said, tilting her head slightly. "What does he think I am?"

Remus sighed, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "He thinks you're a threat," he admitted, shrugging slightly. "Not that you actually are, but you know how he is. He's got this whole black-and-white way of seeing people sometimes."

She thought that was Remus putting it lightly. Sirius's black-and-white way of seeing people was more like a deep-rooted disdain that had only grown sharper over the years. To him, her family was a symbol of everything that was wrong with Slytherin House—an embodiment of the arrogance and ambition that he had turned his back on. And to her, Sirius was no better—another arrogant, self-righteous Gryffindor who thought he could look down on her just because he'd renounced his own family's legacy.

"Clearly," Celine replied sharply. "And what about you, Lupin? Do you agree?"

Remus shook his head immediately. "No, I don't," he said sincerely. "I think there's more to you than that. Sirius just—once he makes up his mind about someone, it's hard for him to see them any other way."

"At least he's consistent," she muttered, fingers toying with the edge of a page.

author's note i hope celine's character isn't too confusing!!